No Man Is An Island, Entire Of

Christ Beats His Drum, But He Does Not Press Men; Christ Is Served With Voluntaries.

I Sing The Progress Of A Deathless Soul.

The Flea, Though He Kill None, He Does All The Harm He Can.

Busy Old Fool, Unruly Sun, Why Dost Thou Thus Through Windows And Through Curtains Call On Us? Must To Thy Motions Lovers Seasons Run?

Our Faults Are Not Seen, But Past Us; Neither Felt, But Only In The Punishment.